When 4-4-2 opened it was an unassuming, quiet soccer pub
as well-known for its Old-World hospitality and Bosnian spiced meats as
for its three-flat-screen assault of le foot worldwide. These days,
although the $5 happy-hour sis-cevap is still a draw, soccer fandom is
front and center: The Venezuelans turn out in force for the Venezuelan
games, everyone who speaks Spanish comes around for the Barcelona games,
and seemingly half the neighborhood is packed in for the Timbers
games—enough so that more than one patron has groused that the bar now
needs a television outside. It probably does. It probably also needs a
referee inside. MATTHEW KORFHAGE.

The Aalto Lounge, at one time a fashion-forward bar
threading that delicate middle path between art-school posh and rock ’n’
roll, found itself on the wrong side of a cultural divide recently.
Despite its criminal Monday special featuring Bulleit and a back for $3,
the dark-painted bar looked dingy and neglected next to Belmont 3.0
neighbors Circa 33 and Sweet Hereafter. After a remodel, the Aalto’s
interior now looks like a Swedish sauna minus the fat naked men, with
wooden slats shimmering behind the heat waves from its many, many
candles. But the bar still boasts the best DJs on the block, and the
whiskey’s still way too cheap on Mondays; the hilariously cheap happy
hour is a secret kept only because no one ever remembers what happened
there. MATTHEW KORFHAGE.

This Vegas-like landmark on North Interstate Avenue began
in the late 1800s as Chat-n-Nibble, a horse-and-buggy stop along the
dirt interstate trail. It’s since undergone an islander makeover, now
boasting hula girl black-light murals and kitschy tiki décor with a ’70s
vibe. The Alibi still retains landmark status and a hodgepodge crowd,
serving up massive Macho Nachos and a shoyu chicken and Kahlua pork
smasher with macaroni ($10) to college kids, lottery-playing locals and
trucker types alike. Nightly karaoke makes it all one big, happy
pork-fed family, helped by candy-sweet tropical drinks. The house
specialty Kamonawannaleiya ($8) is a glass full of watermelon Jolly
Rancher as overzealous as the décor. But the Alibi is the best type of
kitschy: entertaining and not too self-important. ENID SPITZ.

Happy hour: $3 wells, $2 PBR, $5 mai tais 3-7 pm daily.

Entertainment: Karaoke, lottery, DJ.

B-Side Tavern

632 E Burnside St., 233-3113. 4 pm-2:30 am daily.

B-Side is outfitted to resemble the parlor every punk
practice space wished lay nearby. Maiden, Motorhead and Melvins roar
from the jukebox, shots and Pabst tall boys overshadow the cocktails and
craft beers on tap, and the interiors reflect an enlightened hardcore
sensibility leavened by touches of whimsy (the medical X-rays attached
to light fixtures above the hand-poured, concrete-slab bar top) and
professionalism (the ceiling baffles erected to improve conversational
acoustics). Like the best punks, it’s sincere and not exactly friendly,
though endlessly protective of its nearest and dearest. Even when the
wooden back patio fills beyond capacity on summer evenings, revelers
stick to their picnic tables. Plus, there are few bars more comfortable
for women who want to sit alone. The bar’s name may derive from its East
Burnside Street address, but, in a way, B-Side also defines itself by
its opposite: the hit-on single. JAY HORTON.

The west side’s premier beer hangout, Bailey’s Taproom
impresses even eastsiders. Opened in 2007, Bailey’s features an eclectic
tap selection guaranteed to please any palate: The woman seated next to
me was happy with her Goose Island 312 Urban Wheat, as I struggled to
choose between 2008 versions of Terminal Gravity’s Festivale and
Alaskan’s Barley Wine Ale. Fortunately, the bar’s DigitalPour menu helps
flip-floppers make up their minds by blinking a hurrying red for
lighter kegs. Bailey’s best-kept secret is a bottle list of
approximately 100 meticulously chosen beers going back a few years.
JORDAN GREEN.

Bar Bar is the Siamese sidekick to
Mississippi Studios. You might go to Mississippi for up-and-comer shows,
but like the best sidekicks, Bar Bar steals your heart while Studios is
showing off. It has an unassuming Americana vibe: picnic tables on the
huge patio, a housemade barbeque burger ($7) and Harry Truman’s Oregon
Mule (New Deal Vodka and ginger beer, $6). Even with mahogany floors and
old-timey wall lamps inside, it escapes the total hipsterdom of places
like the Ace Hotel by offering killer two-for-$5 sliders and a fire pit.
On sunny days, the outside screen plays black-and-white sci-fi flicks
for relaxing locals. Cyclist hordes flock to Prost up the street, and
Mississippi Pizza gets the underaged, so Bar Bar is happily left with
unpretentious showgoers and local bands eating burgers. ENID SPITZ.

This tucked-away bar along fast-gentrifying upper
Hawthorne Boulevard is a cozy place to slowly digest—whether Polish,
pizza or roasted-beet salad—and rich in aperitifs, with a drink menu
that takes its vodka extraordinarily seriously. With its deep-toned wood
panels, framed mirrors and cast-iron chandelier, the bar’s dim space is
the front room of your alcoholic grandma’s house. And she’s serving
unfiltered Belvedere Vodka, vodka-sparkling wine
cocktails ($9) and whiskey with Krupnik honey liqueur that’s like a
toddy without the tea ($9). The locale also sports quite simply the best
kielbasa plate I’ve had this side of Chicago. The $12 plate will serve
as anchoring paperweight for two, and includes spicy house-stuffed
sausage, seared kale ensconced in plentiful bacon, an airy potato
pancake and warmly brined sauerkraut.
MATTHEW KORFHAGE.

Barwares exists only because of an architectural fluke.
Chef Johanna Ware’s Asian-leaning restaurant, Smallwares, needs a bar
the same size as its dining room about as much as drowsy Beaumont
Village needs a swanky place to hang at 2 am on a Tuesday. Given a
lemon, Ware slices it and serves it as a twist over a cocktail made with
rye whiskey and garam masala syrup ($8). The Barwares space is a modern
beauty done on a budget—concrete, wood and HVAC handiwork with accents
like the incongruous orange sofa on loan from Al Bundy. The service is
better and the food is best. There’s always something special coming out
of the kitchen—corn fried on the cob and drizzled with fish sauce was a
favorite—but I’m happy with a strong cocktail and a bowl of candied
peanuts.
MARTIN CIZMAR.

If you’re going to give your bar a theme, you might as
well go extreme. Base Camp Brewing embraces this ethos in both concept
and execution. The new inner-Southeast brewpub is basically REI in bar
form: a cavernous, urban ski lodge decked out with tables and chairs
made with rocks and timber from Klamath Falls, bungee cords, carabiners,
camping lanterns and a huge upturned canoe on the ceiling, with a front
patio sporting fire pits and log benches that would make Walt Disney
proud. Perhaps strategically, Base Camp forms the apex of a neighborhood
triangle between an indoor rock-climbing gym and Southeast Grand
Avenue’s outdoor stores. My S’more Stout ($4.50) came served with a
toasted marshmallow on the rim—a little over the top for me, but maybe
not for the kind of people who think camping in the rain and dabbling in
frostbite are enjoyable pastimes. RUTH BROWN.

Blame us: Ever since Willamette Week named Beaker
& Flask Restaurant of the Year in 2009, Kevin Ludwig’s refined
outpost—located directly behind his and Michael Shea’s more
traditionally styled cocktail lounge Rum Club—has gained a reputation
for its food more than the drinks. Coming from an ex-bar manager, this
must be irksome. So let’s correct this now by saying Beaker & Flask
has some dang good $9 cocktails. Try the And & And, a fizzy mix of
vodka, blackberry liqueur and angostura bitters, or the tart
bourbon-based Modern Day Hero. Like any good “serious” drinking
establishment, B&F offers little in the way of amenities, so the
concentration is on the liquid offerings themselves, but at sunset, the
large bay windows are a better accoutrement than any pinball machine.
MATTHEW SINGER.

Home is where Beech Street Parlor is. No, seriously. If
you’re not looking for it, you might go right past the restored
107-year-old foursquare home, thinking the patrons cramming the porch
are guests at a house party you’re not invited to. Oh, but you are! Just
inside the doorway, a DJ spins back-in-vogue ’90s R&B underneath
the staircase, while upstairs, a black cat trolling for a stroking winds
its way through three adjoining rooms outfitted with vintage furniture.
It ain’t exactly a rager—the general clientele is well past college
age, and the handsome bar invites orders of Manhattans rather than
Jell-O shots—but for the quarterlifers transitioning out of their 20s
and into true adulthood, Beech Street makes a sophisticated bridge.
MATTHEW SINGER.

Sure, Beer is a generically named bar with $2.50 Miller
High Lifes next to a shop that sells steak sandwiches. But those
sandwiches are exceptional—sliced rare beef flank on ciabatta—from the
shared ownership at Meat Cheese Bread, and the beer menu also includes a
$15 sour ale that was aged in pinot noir barrels. The bar is a homey
room lit by vintage beer signs and decorated with wall hangings made
from flattened old labels. The close-in location draws a mixed
crowd—this is not always a good thing, especially when bartenders used
to sandwich-slingin’ take a light hand with obnoxious barflies—but the
grub and suds are great. MARTIN CIZMAR.

Tucked away in a nondescript storefront in Montavilla,
Beer Bunker is a neighborhood hangout as much as it’s a bottle shop.
Antique beer cans sit on the shelves and hang from the ceiling, serving
as lamp shades, above mismatched and durable furnishings. On a Tuesday,
the Bunker is filled with several small groups, a couple on a date and a
large party celebrating something. Everyone seems relaxed, here to
unwind by sipping a beer and sitting on a metal stool atop a concrete
floor. With 12 rotating taps and three glass sizes ranging from the
5-ounce “shorty” to a full pint, there are options. Four tasters run $5,
and there are more than 100 bottled beers cooling in the glass cases
around back—mostly from Oregon, with a smattering of imports and ciders.
You could grab those bottles to go, but what’s the hurry? JOHN
LOCANTHI.

Happy hour: $1 off pints and wine 3-6 pm.

Entertainment: Occasional tap takeovers, playing 100 Bottles of Beer in the Vault.

The Beer Mongers wasn’t kidding about the name: That’s
what they do. They monger beer. This no-frilled bunker in the often
irritatingly twee mini ’hood surrounding Southeast 12th Avenue and
Division Street is home to the brew horde, with more than 500 bottles
available in its array of beer coolers. While Apex bartenders across the
street disgorge craft brews seemingly reluctantly as they pose for beer
magazine spreads, bare-bones Beer Mongers opens its vault with obvious
relish, happy to talk geekily about beer and sports: The owners
broadcast every single Timbers and Blazers game. MATTHEW KORFHAGE.

If the first round of Alberta Street gentrification
brought families with biodynamic veggie patches and a penchant for naked
fire-twirling, the second will bring whoever is intended to live inside
the concrete bunker being built at the intersection of 21st Avenue. The
corner is already home to Indian joint Bollywood Theater and tourist
magnet Salt & Straw. Hidden out back is Bin 21, an airy wine bar
full of elegant, long-legged ladies sipping rosé and nibbling
bruschetta. Easy-drinking pours hover around $6 to $9. The menu was, on
my visit, skewed toward local regions and Spain, with three wines and
three beers on tap. Sip your white peach sangria on the patio and marvel
at the roller-derby store and punk bar across the street, which will
soon hilariously be called “Old Alberta.” RUTH BROWN.

Happy hour: $3 craft beer, $5 wine pours 4-6 pm daily.

Entertainment: From inside to out, the people-watching pageant is a near complete stages-of-Portland microcosm.

Most breweries trade in kegs, pints or bottles. North
Portland’s Breakside does its best work with taster trays. The brewery’s
year-round offerings are solid—the choco-chili Aztec is one of our top
10 beers—but given that Breakside made a staggering 83 different brews
last year, try as many nips as you can. A 4-ounce pour is often the
right portion, too, with options ranging from pleasantly interesting
offerings like ultra-hot Szechuan Blonde and super-smoky Toro Red, to
over-salty Cucumber Gose and an overly herbal Nordic Porter. But that’s
all part of the fun at this brewery, which pours beers made with beets
and rooibos tea next to ambitious pub fare, including an opulent $10
hummus plate that’s actually worth $10. MARTIN CIZMAR.

It’s not an exaggeration to say the Brooklyn Park Pub ran
unopposed for top honors in its neglected neighborhood even before it
opened seven years ago, and if the crowds took a little while to gather,
let’s just agree they had reason to be wary. Save for the sports
banner, the drearily utilitarian edifice looks more like a woodworking
co-op than sports bar, and not all patrons welcome hyper-cluttered
interiors splitting the difference between postgrad man cave and British
pub. Nonetheless, a packed crowd on a recent Tuesday reminded me of
either an old classmate unseen outside the lecture hall (fleece, starter
beard) or a lout facing comical death in a Guy Ritchie feature (silk
footie jersey, unblinking gaze). It takes a special thirst to justify
the hundred-plus labels of artisan booze strewn under the board games
and stuffed groundhogs. Brooklyn, they go hard. JAY HORTON.

Bunk Bar—the spacious, hip cousin to Bunk Sandwiches’
original Southeast Morrison Street location—serves beer, offers pinball
and sometimes throws a concert. Oh, and it serves the same impressive
lineup of lunchtime staples that endeared Bunk to so many in the first
place. From the roast beef ($9), with its silky caramelized onions and
tangy horseradish, to the saucy Meatball Parmigiano Hero ($8), the
sandwiches showcase unique flavors and meticulous attention to detail.
While sandwiches are the name of Bunk’s game, sides like mole tots ($5)
and fries with debris gravy and Bunk cheese ($5) are less expensive and
just as filling. MICHAEL LOPEZ.

Burnside Brewing is at least as good at
pairing food with its beer as it is at cramming foodie flavors into its
brews. From its famous Sweet Heat—a standard chili beer even if it is
brewed with apricot purée and Jamaican Scotch bonnet peppers—to
sweet-appled winter strongs and sea-urchin Uni Ale, the brewery trumpets
its use of obscurities like plum, mallow root and kaffir lime leaf.
Still, most of Burnside’s beers turn out surprisingly conventional. So
order food to complement. The atmosphere is stuck between medieval
rustic and laser-cut modern. MITCH LILLIE.

You have to respect the purity of purpose at Bushwacker
Cider. It would be easy to broaden the comfortable, vaguely English
pub’s appeal by tossing a few bottled Newcastles in the cooler next to
185 ciders. But it would do nothing to add to the atmosphere, which was
informed one Saturday by a high-stakes dart game, a stray catalog for Settlers of Catan
expansion packs, a man in a utility kilt and copies of a weekly,
Portland-based, nerd-themed periodical. Settle in with a taster tray of
tap ciders ($6) and some gluten-free pretzel sticks ($3). From the
tasters, I was most taken with a barrel-aged version of the supermarket
staple Woodchuck, which tasted like a well-blended but fairly syrupy
bourbon cocktail. I ordered a pint, and learned maybe there were already
a few compromises on the menu. “That stuff is way too sweet for me,”
says the bartender. “But I want other people to find ciders they enjoy.”
MARTIN CIZMAR.

Entertainment: Darts, games.

Club 21

2035 NE Glisan St., 235-5690. 11:30 am-2:30 am daily.

Club 21 is a McDonald’s for legal drinkers, which I say
with the kindest possible intentions. First: The building looks like a
tiny white castle, and you enter through a door in the base of the
tower. Second: The bar is located a mere five-minute walk from two
rock-climbing gyms, which are themselves Pee-wee’s playhouses for the
out-of-diapers set. Third: Club 21 is known for its cheap, extensive
build-a-burger menu, which lets picky eaters avoid all the “ew, yucky!”
condiments and put on weird crap like tomato bacon jam. However, none of
this makes the bar off-putting. When you’re 6, McDonald’s is the apex
of everything entertaining, delicious and desirable, and an appealing
mix of youngsters, flannel-clad locals and rocker types seem to agree
that Club 21 is a decent latter-day incarnation. But this time, with a
better tap list. ADRIENNE SO.

Even if it’s only about 3 years old, Coalition is very
much a classic Portland brewpub. Though it now bottles and cans,
Coalition’s soul is an inviting tasting room where a neighborhood crowd
shows up to chat while serviced by some of our town’s friendlier
bartenders. The flagship Two Dogs IPA is magnificently balanced, with
the crisp bitterness of dandelion leaves and a melty caramel sweetness.
It’s a throwback to when IPAs offered floral, zesty complexity instead
of stinging acidity. It was a beer I remembered loving, even as I sipped
my first pint. Founders Kiley Hoyt and Elan Walsky started as
homebrewers participating in Widmer Brothers’ collaboration project, and
the brewery pays it forward with a similar Coalator program. MARTIN
CIZMAR.

Happy hour: Sausage specials 3-6 pm Monday-Friday.

Entertainment: Timbers and Blazers games on projectors.

The Conquistador

2045 SE Belmont St., 232-3227. 4 pm-2:30 am daily.

Show up for a weekday happy hour at this self-consciously
kitschy bar—the walls are lined with velvet portraits of Cortes
look-alikes—and you’re likely to encounter women in (mostly) tasteful
makeup and men in ironed button-downs. Return a few hours later, and
you’ll find pinball-playing creatives and tattooed musicians. It’s a
tension that, in some ways, carries through to the menu, where cocktails
with names like “Hot Love If You Want It” (coconut rum, pepper vodka,
passion fruit purée, cream, $8) exist alongside vegetarian,
Latin-tilting dishes (empanadas, $3, are stuffed with caramelized
mushrooms or spinach and hazelnuts). Deep black booths are comfortable
for groups, and later in the evening DJs spin garage rock. REBECCA
JACOBSON.

The cocktails at Crush might tend toward sweet and fruity,
but the menu descriptions are pure sass. Take note when ordering the
Male Order Bride (ginger ale, grated ginger, vodka, $6): “All sales
final.” Prefer the Green Monk, loaded with Green Chartreuse and vodka
($8)? Make sure to “picture hot French monks” quietly harvesting herbs.
Crush attracts a largely queer crowd into its airy, red-and-black-walled
space. The artwork seems vaguely inspired by both construction work and
bondage, with hinges, pulleys and latches affixed to giant canvases. At
happy hour, take a seat at the S-shaped bar to gab with the amiable
bartenders as you nosh on nachos, or show up after dark for burlesque
(and boylesque) shows and DJs spinning dance music. Nice and naughty,
indeed. REBECCA JACOBSON.

This Portland-outpost brewpub is a tight-tabled Pearl
District beer barn, not overtly pleasant, but one settles in immediately
upon tasting its rotating array of interesting seasonals and
experimentals. Winter favorites included the Cassis Abbey, a
wine-stained black currant sour with a dry finish, and the fireplace
comforts of the house’s Bomb Squad Smoked Imperial, which clambers back
to tickle the entire top of the palate, and maybe even the sinuses,
before settling into dark chocolate. So even if you’re rammed too close
to some dude who just tricked out his Dodge Ram for no reason at all,
the taster tray will soon distract you, and the servers are overworked
but quick on delivery. MATTHEW KORFHAGE.

A triangular den of enlightened iniquities set near the
mouth of Foster Road, this favored daughter of Dante’s seems engineered
to dispel any lingering illusions about strip bars. Devils Point may be,
perhaps, darker than your average FoPo watering hole, but considerably
less dingy. When daytime dancers tan themselves on smoking porches and
mingle with patrons returning from the neighboring food-cart pod—a far
wiser bet than the house cuisine—it’s less sinister than cinematic. The
art-directed environs, paired with the sterling goth and rawk tunes
chosen by performers and the strong pours of affable bartenders, retains
a steady clientele of all genders. Come the carnal vaudeville eruptions
of the New York Times-lauded Stripparaoke sessions, overeager women are more the rule. Abandon all pretense ye who enter here. JAY HORTON.

For many Portlanders, Dig a Pony will never be a song by
the Beatles. It will be dimly lit mahogany-and-leather booths
surrounding a horseshoe bar in a Southeast Portland bar where
wood-paneled walls are hung with vintage portraiture and an ironic
houseplant that keeps the Instagramming doorman company. Dig a Pony
might play the Beatles, but only ironically, deafening the crowd of
oxford lace-ups, sleeve tattoos and deep-V-neck tees that gather to sip
Manhattans ($8) and be seen. But for all its fried plantains ($4),
lavender bitters (Patsy’s Cocktail, $8) and wax-dripping candles, Dig a
Pony is actually uneccentric: It’s a familiar enough city-dwellers’ bar
with an old-timey feel and a Tumblr presence. ENID SPITZ.

Drink this: Patsy’s Cocktail ($8) is a
libation equivalent of the vintage flower painting hanging behind the
bar: St. Germain, lemon and lavender.

Like a mountain-cabin coke den, the Doug Fir Lounge is all
exposed logs and mirrors. It’s a pleasing mix of rugged and luxe, as
though Rick James moved in with Paul Bunyan and they compromised on the
décor. A steady stream of quality bands, local and otherwise, keep its
basement venue crowded most nights, while the ambrosial bacon and other
generally tasty grub have the upstairs dining room consistently hopping
as well. The sleek-as-hell back patio feels about as L.A. as Portland
ever could, and the adjoining Jupiter Hotel’s mod, IKEA-inspired rooms
make this woodsy oasis feel like the sort of Shangri-la you could settle
into for a long, long time. EMILY JENSEN.

The menu at Fire on the Mountain’s huge Fremont restaurant
and brewery is like the ultimate special-edition disc of your favorite
flick: Yes, it’s great to have the thing you originally loved—Portland’s
best fried chicken wings in a variety of rich sauces—but it’s those
Easter eggs that make you want to finally go Blu-ray. The menu’s stocked
with great extras, starting with the seriously legit New Haven-style
pizzas ($11-$26) with a little char and zesty marinara. There are also
calzones ($13) and some great beer coming out of the tanks poking up
behind the bar. And, wait, horchata? Fried Oreos and maple bacon knots
for dessert? Craziest of all: At least one nutty bastard apparently
drinks Pernod Absinthe with buffalo wings. MARTIN CIZMAR.

Did you know that Pabst Blue Ribbon comes in light form?
The obscure B-side of the chart-topping brew gets a little play at St.
Johns’ Fixin’ To, where a long shuffleboard table runs parallel to the
bar and one of the city’s best pizza carts, Pizza Contadino, bakes pies
out on the large front patio. In this place, it can be appreciated both
ironically and not. Loud décor is “eclectic” in the same vein as the
neighboring McMenamins theater and the patrons and bartenders seem quite
familiar. This is the sort of place where a regular insists you take
the hot toddy made for him and a basketball game no one cares about gets
folks talking about the weekend they spent in Reno. MARTIN CIZMAR.

There is no reason the Foggy Notion should be as awesome
as it is. In a ramshackle-looking building on Lombard Street, this
poorly marked pub opens up on tables and counters collaged with
rock-album covers and strange pop-culture cutouts. It would be easy for
it to go full-on dive, but instead owner Mel Brandy—whose shouts can
always be heard above whatever’s on the jukebox—has an impressive array
of house-infused and top-shelf liquors. A citrus juicer on the counter
makes The Lolita, with tequila, fresh grapefruit juice, St. Germain
elderflower liqueur on the rocks ($6) a standout. And it pays to get
there early in the week. The bar’s best menu item hands-down is its
pierogi ($8), made once a week on Monday. When it’s gone, it’s gone.
ANDREA DAMEWOOD.

Under the watchful eyes of Abraham Lincoln in two slightly
creepy paintings on the walls of Free House, a dozen or so drinkers
maintain a vibe of laid-back camaraderie. Reopening a couple of months
ago under the joint ownership of Victory Bar chef Eric Moore and Olympic
Provisions co-owner Martin Schwartz, the revamped Free House now boasts
the best influences of both, with better-than-average bar food (banh
mi, anyone?) and a rotating list of house cocktails that fall into the
“Portland eclectic” category. I had a Tusken Raider (pisco, lemon,
pineapple gomme and Prosecco), which I assume you’re supposed to drink
one at a time so as to conceal your numbers. A partially covered patio
is one of the bar’s new features and offers plenty of space for
summertime drinking. Although it probably never gets too rowdy at Free
House—after all, Honest Abe is watching. PENELOPE BASS.

A room full of clown paintings—from
thoughtful oils to black velvets and a Christ-like Ronald McDonald—would
be enough to give anyone nightmares. But the “clown room” at Funhouse
Lounge serves as part of the entertainment, alongside a stack of board
games and a Wii. The new bar/performance space serves as home to
Portland improv troupe the Unscriptables, with most Saturdays offering
one or two live shows like their current production Avenue PDX, a spoof on the puppet musical Avenue Q.
The menu features mostly hot sandwiches and appetizers, and the bar has
a concession-stand feel, with no draft beers—just cheap shots, mixed
drinks, bottles, wine and soft drinks. It’s probably best to go on the
night of a performance or event, such as the Sunday Funhouse game show.
You wouldn’t want it to just be you and the clowns. PENELOPE BASS.

The blinking lights of arcade games and
excited chatter of twentysomethings reliving their teenage glory while
sipping beer can be a sensory overload when you first enter Ground
Kontrol. Nerds, douchebags and gamers flock to this barcade for that
nostalgic arcade experience, most too young to have lived through its
golden age. House of the Dead, Joust, Turtles in Time, Asteroids
and many other classics are all here. There are also relics like the
pinball machine upstairs for the mostly forgotten mid-’90s film
adaptation of The Shadow to bring you back to that bygone era.
But now alcohol is involved. Grab yourself a stiff $4 whiskey Coke and
challenge a complete stranger to Tekken Tag. Next drink’s on the loser. JOHN LOCANTHI.

Like Young Guns II or the video for Michael
Jackson’s “Black or White,” a full accounting of Hair of the Dog’s
importance requires some historical context. When Alan Sprints opened
his brewery in 1993, Americans simply didn’t make barrel-aged or
bottle-conditioned beers. Sprints found inspiration on a trip to
Belgium. The brewery reserves special releases for its taproom, and
Sprints is now a local legend and the type of guy who gets flown down to
L.A. to host tastings at fancy pizzerias. Almost everything Hair of the
Dog makes is impressive, even if it’s not as unique as it once was. The
tasting room is a great place to sample pricey barrel-aged beers from
the keg—or spring for a bottle of the 1994 vintage of Adam, 12 ounces of
local history priced at $50. MARTIN CIZMAR.

Its Oregon City locale keeps the iconic Highland
Stillhouse well off the radar of most Portland locals. Too bad. The
Stillhouse has, quite simply, the most extensive Scotch selection that
you are likely to experience anywhere, including most places in
Scotland. We recommend an early day weekend ride on the 33 or 35 bus, as
you are not likely to imbibe lightly. Order some Scotch you’ve never
heard of, and while some blowhard at the other table explains that
Scotch is all about the water, you will be looking out at the fine
waters of the Willamette from the patio. The voluminous beer list has
plenty of rare imports from the British isles, but seriously: Stick to
the Islay. There are 54 bottles of it to try before you even make it the
Lowlands or the Speyside. MATTHEW KORFHAGE

Happy hour: Food specials
Tuesday-Friday 3-6 pm.

Entertainment: Live music, TV, reading the whisky
list over and over to yourself in a thick accent.

Horse Brass is the classic Portland beer bar, created in
the image of a British pub by guys who’d never seen a British pub. They
did a remarkable job, and the Brass remains vital even after the passing
of legendary proprietor Don Younger. You go for the beer, which is
poured from fully 50 taps, but the pub also serves inconsistent but
sometimes great food, including four big, dark pieces of halibut that
benefit greatly from a brightening squeeze of lemon and a twinkle of
vinegar ($14.25). MARTIN CIZMAR

Entertainment: English Premier League soccer, occasional live music, darts.

After walking through a brightly lit hall
of middle-aged men playing pool and watching UFC, it’s vaguely
disconcerting to descend a staircase and suddenly find yourself in a dim
room full of effete art-school kids selling zines, spinning glam rock
on vinyl and doing spoken-word performances before a backdrop of crudely
drawn penises. Somehow, the Jack London Bar, in a resurrected basement
lounge below the dingy Rialto, has established itself as the new
downtown darling of Portland’s alt-lit crowd, quietly playing host to
lectures, readings and art shows while scary dudes with big bellies play
video poker upstairs. Dark, grungy and graffitied, the bar suggests an
edgier scene, but the Instagramming audience sipping box wine says
otherwise. Still, something about the Jack London feels slightly
illicit, like the folks upstairs might suddenly appear, brandishing
their pool cues, to chase everyone back across Burnside. RUTH BROWN.

Live music loud enough to enjoy yet quiet enough to allow
you to hold a conversation with your dinner date will never go out of
style. Jimmy Mak’s has that in spades. The dimly lit jazz lounge and
restaurant is famous for the weekly sets by legendary Portland drummer
Mel Brown, but it also features a wide variety of acts on weekends. A
mix of well-to-do baby boomers, older couples and well-dressed (by
Portland standards) tweeners fill out the crowd. The Greek food menu
feels overpriced, and the refusal to serve beer in something other than
14-ounce “pints” is disappointing, but the music and ambience more than
make up for it. Jimmy Mak’s is not a dance club. It’s a place to sit
back, sip a Sazerac ($9.50) and ride that anise finish and melancholy
music into the night. JOHN LOCANTHI.

Each page of Kask’s menu concludes with a quote. From F.
Scott Fitzgerald, on the page devoted to grain and grape spirits:
“Here’s to alcohol, the rose colored glasses of life.” Such lenses slide
on easily at this West End saloon, oiled by the vast selection of smart
cocktails and fortified by the fine cheese-and-charcuterie plates. It’s
fitting, too, to find a quote from that quintessential American
playboy: While Kask might be run by the same folks as Grüner, the Alpine
eatery next door, the vibe here is hardly continental. With undersized
tables and stools, a mammoth walnut bar and bison sketched on giant
chalkboards, Kask is cozy and just a tad quaint. Start sipping one of
those thoughtful cocktails—the adaption of the 1947 classic El Diablo
($9) is spicy but not too sharp, though on a budget opt for a $5 glass
of punch—and you’ll be wearing those rosy specs in no time. REBECCA
JACOBSON.

Kelly’s Olympian is the aesthetic
hodgepodge you’d expect from Portland’s third-oldest continually
operating bar/restaurant—it celebrated its 111th birthday this past
February. Unused motorcycle parking spots sit out front while vintage
motorcycles are suspended from the ceiling. A dark lounge is tucked in
the very back of the bar. An eclectic selection of local bands plays in a
side room off the main bar throughout the week. Kelly’s Olympian’s
namesake, Olympia Beer, is mercifully left off the 20 beers on tap.
Regulars, college kids and the occasional whiny person all seem to find
themselves at Kelly’s for one reason or another. It’s a solid dive to
drop $4.50 on a pint and watch just enough of a Blazers game to want to
order another. JOHN LOCANTHI.

Only blocks from the heavily announced Noble Rot, Amalie
Roberts’ tiny wine den has become a mainstay for the small number of
people who are able to find it, tucked a mere block away from the din of
East Burnside’s sardine-packed bar scene. From the looks on a recent
Friday, this seems to describe mostly arts patrons and artists over 30,
enjoying carefully selected, mostly European bottles with an emphasis on
Italians from malvasia to rose-sweet lambrusco. Don’t be surprised to
find yourself staring cross-eyed at an unfamiliar selection: It’s OK.
It’s a friendly, cozy little world where the enthusiastic server is
happy to act as wine whisperer. MATTHEW KORFHAGE

A few years ago, musician Jonathan Richman walked into the
Know and fell in love. He was in town to play the Aladdin Theater but
promised to return and perform on the bar’s shin-high stage, which he’s
done multiple times now. A lot of his punk-era peers would probably have
the same reaction. More than just another dive, the Know has the
battered aura of a classic rock club: Its bathroom stalls are lovingly
defaced, the floors are sticky, the PBR practically flows from the
faucets. Even though it’s only been open eight years, it feels like it’s
been around forever. OK, maybe it’s not CBGB. Maybe it’s more like a
neighborhood basement venue with a liquor license. And maybe that makes
it even cooler. MATTHEW SINGER.

If the Landmark Saloon were any more authentic, you’d need
a concealed carry permit. This young bar is a real-deal Texas
honky-tonk—just up from Stumptown Coffee on Southeast Division Street.
Inside, you’ll find that high, lonesome sound played live by bands like
the Rocky Butte Wranglers while men in denim jackets and women with hair
buns drink 24-ounce PBR taller boys and pints of Double Mountain. The
bar took over a converted home with wood floors and cozy rooms, but the
spacious street-side patio is the best part of the place. Grab a seat
next to a fire pit that’s nice this time of year or grab bags for the
cornhole boards.
MARTIN CIZMAR.

Portland’s other Big Pink, Liberty Glass,
crams off-kilter rusticity into a building the color of a preteen
girl’s diary. An antiquated two-story house standing a block away from
where the “new Mississippi” begins, the bar replaced beloved restaurant
Lovely Hula Hands in 2008, then became an institution itself by dodging
the trendy hand of progress sweeping through the rest of the
neighborhood. Disembodied antlers decorate the walls, water is served in
tin cups and the craft beers in Mason jars, nobody’s bothered to remove
the claw-foot tub from the restroom, and the most rhapsodized item on
the menu is the Triscuit nachos. It maintains a vague literary
feel—author Patrick deWitt based a three-legged dog in his award-winning
novel, The Sisters Brothers, on the house pooch, Otis—while resembling a backwoods dollhouse, which is about as Portlandian as it gets. MATTHEW SINGER.

Happy hour: $1 off beer and appetizers 3-6 pm daily.

Entertainment: Bingo.

Lion’s Eye Tavern

5919 SE 82nd Ave., 774-1468.

No longtime Portlander is surprised to
hear there’s great stuff in the outer reaches of Southeast 82nd Avenue.
Even so, the Lion’s Eye Tavern comes as a bit of a shock. Turns out that
one of Portland’s coolest bars—one with pool tables, pinball machines, a
top-tier patio and a well-curated supply of about three dozen bottled
beers and eight fine, cheap pints on tap, including the slightly fruity
Lion’s Eye Bock—is spitting distance from Cobbler Bill’s footwear and
Monique Salon. The rejuvenated Mount Scott dive shows Timbers games and
hosts trivia nights, but it’s the little things—the nut-filled quarter
machines built into the ’70s-wood-paneling bar, the stack of board
games—that make this pint-sized spot feel warm and cozy. The housemade
soups and sweet bartenders help, too. And all the sirens? You get used
to them. CASEY JARMAN.

Whether you’re lookin’ to twerk while taking tequila shots
or are an amateur hoping to get sexy at strip night, the colorful,
queer-friendly Local Lounge—better known as Shantay—is your huckleberry.
Located on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, well away from more
traditional queer-centered nightlife, the lounge draws in crowds from
all walks of life. Bears and blue-collars alike relish in the glory of
cheap booze, seasonal cocktails ($8), and tater-tot casserole ($6),
though if you come in on the wrong night the bartender may be your only
company. Mondays get you a burger and PBR to nosh on for seven bucks
while you take in the latest episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race. EMILLY PRADO.

Luc Lac likes to sweeten the pot. The place, indeed, is
beautiful. Surrounding a bar island at the room’s center, one wall is
covered in metallic Victorian wallpaper, while the other includes a
colossal ironized mural of a dragon. The Vietnamese bar cuisine is also a
bit sweet, possibly even timid. It’s a place of mild-mannered culinary
pleasantry and Asian-inflected cocktail dreams, garbed in colonial chic.
The bo tai chanh, with peanut-studded rare steak cooked in lime and
pineapple, remains one of the menu’s highlights ($7), and the sweet,
tripe-free pho ($6.50-$9) is a popular slurp for the happy-hour and
late-night crowds. Word to the wise, though: Go cheap and boozy. Luc Lac
has one of the best happy hours in the city, with small-version menu
items as cheap as $2. Note: Drinkers take priority if they’re smart.
Skip the stupid food line and pony at the bar. MATTHEW KORFHAGE.

Happy hour: Insanely cheap food specials 4-7 pm Monday-Saturday.

Lutz Tavern

4639 SE Woodstock Blvd., 774-0353, 11-2:30 am daily.

Six-decade-old neighborhood saloons don’t always survive
the change of ownership, but this newly sleekened tavern-—bought by Crow
Bar vets three years ago—somehow shows its age more than ever before.
The Lutz retrovation approximates the effect of a gearhead restoring a
1947 Fleetmaster chassis and seat covers while tearing out the engine to
ensure modern performance. Memorabilia advertising defunct breweries
decorates the walls, the phone booth has been repurposed as an ATM and a
partially enclosed back patio welcomes smokers. Early evening, the
well-heeled demographic orders from a menu including the deadlier
fringes of diner cuisine. The flat-billed hordes from parts east, who
overwhelm the bar afterward, may have noticed only the availability of
Jaeger. JAY HORTON.

Happy hour: $2.50 well, $1.50 PBR tall boys 4-7 pm daily.

Entertainment: Pool, pinball, patio, TV.

M Bar

417 NW 21st Ave., 228-6614. 6 pm-2:30 am daily. Cash only.

M Bar is the Mill Ends Park of bars. An itty-bitty,
candelit establishment, it’s like a tiny Victorian parlor, rid of all
excessive frippery and staffed by a singularly friendly bartender. Since
Sterling Coffee moved in last June (it’s a cafe during the day and
undergoes a costume change for the evening), M Bar has been updated with
tastefully striped wallpaper, but the atmosphere is convivial as ever.
It had better be: The spot is so small that, while sipping your glass of
viognier or your 10 Barrel ISA (no liquor here), you’ll probably end up
swapping stories with your neighbors. On a recent weekend evening, I
discussed the Italian mob with the publisher of this very newspaper.
It’s cash only, and want a receipt? The bartender—dressed like those at
Teardrop but without an ounce of the pretension—will have to handwrite
it for you. I’m still charmed.
REBECCA JACOBSON.

The phrase “strip club” conjures up the image of
fake-breasted blondes moving up and down poles while desperate men slip
dollar bills into their G-strings and sip overpriced drinks. Magic
Garden is exactly none of those things. It’s a dive bar that just
happens to also have naked women dancing. A gruff, cagey old woman named
Patty has tended the bar since time immemorial, and she doesn’t forget
who the good tippers are. And $4 well drinks can go a long way if you
play your cards right. Two dancers rotate between the small dance
floor—where they also DJ—and help out around the bar. There is no
stripper pole. The dancers’ song choices veer toward indie and garage
rock, a welcome accompaniment to the duo shooting pool in the back and
crowd hanging out at the bar. The stripping is more on the peripheries
here. JOHN LOCANTHI.

Setting foot inside Mary’s Club is stepping into a slice
of Portland unstuck in time. Antique fliers for the litany of performers
who have graced Portland’s oldest strip club line the walls. The
colorful mural of historic women painted along the back wall dates back
to the ’50s. The cash register looks twice as old. A heavily tattooed
dancer slides up and down the pole to the sultry chords of Velvet
Underground’s “Venus in Furs” in front of a surprisingly gender-balanced
crowd. There are 10 beers on tap, but I always find myself gravitating
toward the one with a stripper handle at the end: Mary’s blonde ale
($4.75). It’s a fitting accompaniment as one takes in the wide range of
women dancing at Mary’s, which at one point included Portland’s favorite
daughter, Courtney Love. Mary’s Club is a strip club in that low-key,
dive-y Portland kind of way. JOHN LOCANTHI.

If the Most Interesting Man in the World held a
punk-tinged lounge equivalent, this dimly lit jewel of West Burnside,
long the spiritual link between uptown and the rock blocks, wouldn’t be a
poor blueprint. The men’s restroom boasts carnation-colored,
heart-shaped sink basins opposite a urinal perhaps reclaimed from the Titanic.
Friendly bartenders do not tolerate fools, whether slumming debs or
aspirational homeless or Timbers faithful spilling forth from nearby
Jeld-Wen Field. The Scrabble tournaments on Super Bowl Sunday
epitomize a somewhat conflicted relationship with sports yet shown on
the flat screens. Rockers hoping to grab a cheap beer and hobnob with
their fave DJ may be absorbed into a bachelorette party as quickly as IT
wizards enjoying a higher-end tipple find their non-prescription
eyeglasses blown clean off by the first chords of garage up-and-comers
set up by the pool table. While recent Southeast settlement Conquistador
seamlessly serves the rarefied tastes of the condo set at twilight and
touring tastemakers ’round last call, the Matador doesn’t quite cater to
any one vision of what a bar should be—save, after a fashion, the
former owner and provocateur-in-chief whose portrait in black velvet
hangs near the entrance---—and effectively demands the patrons to submit
to the peculiar momentum of the moment. “Nobody ever lives their life
all the way up except bullfighters,” but the right sort of bar helps
immeasurably. JAY HORTON.

The charms of Matchbox Lounge are time-dependent.
Surrounded by food destinations like Wafu, Pok Pok and Sunshine Tavern,
this straightforward cafelike bar makes its bones with a ridiculous
happy-hour burger, which is only $6 from 4 to 6 pm and again from 10 pm
to close. The art is nice, the beer selection, which leans toward Double
Mountain and Breakside, is solid and the bartender manages a dozen
customers split between the bar, the two-top tables and one big booth as
well as any one man could. The burger is just as good at 7:30 pm, but
the cost skyrockets to $11, pricier than Wafu’s exceptional abura soba.
MARTIN CIZMAR.

Maui’s greets you with the olfactory wave of damp air and
warm beer that screams dive. There are murals of frolicking dolphins on
the cinder-block walls, but this is not a dive into pristine waters. It
is a grown-up skater boy’s pool lounge, painted like an aquarium, with
skateboards, snowboards and electric guitars suspended from the ceiling.
Drinks that are stiff enough to spike the ocean fuel Blazers-clad
throngs and alterna-culture posses through epic pingpong games on the
patio. On game day, stalwarts can munch mac and cheese, bagged chips and
deli sandwiches perfectly paired with the $2 PBRs. Maybe PBR tastes
better with a killer whale hanging overhead? ENID SPITZ.

Moloko ain’t subtle with the symbolism. We get it: The
giant fish tanks on either side of the bar are a welcome invitation to
drink like an aquatic invertebrate. But after at least the better part
of a decade open on Mississippi, Moloko is a relative granddaddy on the
block. With a cocktail list so expansive that the ’tender has to look up
the more obscure items, we appreciate this joint’s willingness to play
with taste-bud-challenging ingredients, including absinthe (its
trademark mixer), Campari and house-infused liquors. The bar’s covered
back patio with heat lamps—a friend to all smokers and friends of
smokers—makes it a necessary stop on any Mississippi crawl. ANDREA
DAMEWOOD.

While newish slogan “Putting Neighbor Back in the ’Hood”
doesn’t really speak to any grand design guiding the bar’s continual
improvements—a 725-degree wood-fired oven and glassed-in sun
room—there’s a warm welcome redolent of the spacious saloon’s
ever-more-inviting upper Foster environs. The rotating taps still
feature Hamm’s alongside modestly expanding craft-brew selections, while
gluten-free bottled brews nestle comfortably beside Rainier tall boys
below the sprawling collection of porcelain decanters. Their pizza still
compares favorably to Sizzle Pie’s, at considerably less cost. Nobody
would have dared predict that a makeshift stage this far from the river
could regularly attract top local bands or their devoted throngs, but on
lovingly curated bills most Saturday nights, they clear away the pool
tables and introduce hoodies to the neighbors. JAY HORTON.

Near cases bursting with a rainbow of decadent macarons
and $3 eau de vie-filled chocolates, patrons at the new Pix Patisserie
location can sift
through 11 pages of champagnes before deigning to turn pages onto mere
midlist sparkling wines or an admirably broad selection of Belgian ales.
Pix’s Cheryl Wakerhauser’s new, somewhat fussy tapas-bar concept, Bar
Vivant, also shares this space. The liquors and beers are housed on one
side of a massive ovoid bar; the tapas are on the other. Amid dampened
swells of soft jazz and quiet huddles of seated patrons, the mood at Bar
Vivant can be a bit church-like. One almost feels the need to whisper
while eating its rich, low-cost Spanish tortillas, bacon-wrapped dates
in maple syrup or lovely butterflied mackerel. Make sure to show up for
the bar’s occasional gastronomical trivia tasting contests. You’ll lose,
embarrassingly, but will be too fat and drunk to care. MATTHEW
KORFHAGE.

Chrome exhaust pipes flank an entryway lined with country
stars’ head shots, an apt welcome for this truck-stop wonderland near
the Washington border. Jubitz is possibly the biggest gas station ever, a
haven for tired truckers that draws hordes of country-lovin’ folk for
weekend shows and dancing. Eating areas, dance floors and Keno machines
stretch endlessly from the bar. But the real treat is drunkenly
wandering the rest of Jubitz’s center with Keith Urban ringing in your
ears. Past a restaurant of the apple pie and fried mozzarella stick
variety, a museum of 18-wheelers leads to pinball machines, massage
chairs, a hair salon and two-screen theater. Dancing lessons at the
Ponderosa Lounge are just the beginning of this fall down a countrified
rabbit hole. ENID SPITZ.

Fewer afternoons lend themselves to greater pleasure than a
few hours whiled away with a delectable glass of neat bourbon and a
sunny place to take in the sights. With one of the city’s most
impressive brown-liquor lists and a big ol’ patio out front, the Pope
House is a go-to spot to build a buzz as the city keeps on spinning.
It’s a Nob Hill spot, so more people show up in gym wear than I prefer
to see when exercising my liver, but they fade to the background in the
face of well-crafted cocktails and an epic selection of bourbon, Scotch
and whiskey. Inside is a Kentucky Derby-devoted theme—add a Maker’s
Manhattan ($9) and it’s Southern comfort in Northwest Portland at its
finest. ANDREA DAMEWOOD.

I wish I’d seen Produce Row before they fancied it up.
This old-time Eastside Industrial bar was refurbished in 2010 and now is
polished, with sparse but tasteful furnishings and fine food and drink.
In the old days, it was a gritty rocker bar where Pete Krebs hung out
and early Oregon craft brews from Widmer and Deschutes found their first
taps. These days, handsome wood tables display cauliflower panzanella
and grilled polenta just down from the similarly decorated Olympic
Provisions charcuterie shop. It’s all very nice—the beer list is just as
edgy, with plenty of serious offerings—but it’s hard to compare it to
the charm of its legend. MARTIN CIZMAR.

What’s better than 2 liters of delicious, imported German
beer? Two liters of that beer in a giant boot–yours, for the night,
after a deposit of $50. While Prost! can get cramped with burly beer
dudes on weekends and soccer fans during Timbers games, this small,
German-style pub offers an impressive array of locally sourced snacks
and authentic beers served accordingly in traditional glassware.
Although it can be tempting to swing by a nearby food cart, the options
at hand—like a chewy pretzel sandwich ($9.50) with two types of sausage
and fixins—won’t disappoint. Not feeling the beer scene? Opt for an
autumnal Herbst Whiskey of Jim Beam infused with raisins, oranges and
cinnamon (cold for $6.50, hot for $7.50). Amid the rustic wood walls,
old-timey family photos and ceramic novelty mugs, there is one novelty
on offer at a point well past grim familiarity: After consuming a mere
1,000 drinks on your punch card, you can own your own barstool here.
EMILLY PRADO.

Redwood’s small gastropub menu includes a solid selection
of the Southern-fried Northwest larder that has, for better or worse,
come to dominate Portland’s food scene. This place won’t prompt
westsiders to find their way to the backside of the volcano—Tanuki
covers that base—but it’s a good addition to the neighborhood, and worth
a try before catching a movie across the street. Its best dish is a
generous portion of seared, deboned trout ($14), served in its skin and
topped with sprigs of cilantro and a thick, refreshing poblano
vinaigrette I’d favorably compare to the salsa verde found in squeeze
bottles at good taquerias. The desserts and cocktails are nothing
special, however. MARTIN CIZMAR.

This fantastically ramshackle tavern has mastered the
recipe for a perfect dive bar. The ingredients are simple: cheap beer,
fried chicken and no judgment. This is a joint that lets the drunken
soul run amuck, with colored chalk handy for scrawling inspired messages
on the wallboards and rafters (our favorite reading: “BACON 2013”), a
slew of mindless entertainment from shooting games to video lottery, and
a wall-mounted condom dispenser, should one need to procure some hasty
birth control. The fried-chicken dinner ($7.50 for two pieces) with
mammoth jojos is widely considered some of the best battered bird in the
city, and comes with six dipping sauces—a sloppy feast fit for a soused
king. EMILY JENSEN.

Given its outsized reputation among Oregon saloon lore
over seven decades of operation, infrequent visitors to Multnomah
Village, Southwest Portland’s lone civilized stretch, always forget a
central tenet of Renner’s Grill: The bar is teensy. A decent birthday
party could overfill the Suburban Room, Renner’s elevated
lounge-within-a-lounge, not to mention disturb the early evening array
of well-turned-out couples finishing their dinner, just-off-work locals
starting their drunk and the still-imposing pensioners staring down the
Blazers game. But the interiors are less cramped than finely
proportioned, and there’s an easy bonhomie across age and collar that
has all but vanished in Portland proper. The generous pours and cozy
environs help, of course, but sometimes it takes a village. JAY HORTON.

Happy hour: $3 wells, $1.50 PBR, $1 off micros 3-7 pm daily.

Entertainment: TV, bingo.

Roadside Attraction

1000 SE 12th Ave., 233-0743, 3 pm-1 am daily. Cash only.

Contrary to popular belief, Roadside Attraction was never a
Chinese restaurant. You could be easily fooled, though, by the crimson
walls and the serpentine golden dragons framing the arch into the back
poolroom. Then again, other curios recall a tiki lounge, summer camp or
your Burner cousin’s overgrown backyard, so you’d also be forgiven for
assigning this inner-Southeast pub a different ancestry entirely. It’s a
place where all Portlanders must land at some point, though it’s
disproportionately patronized by the sartorially adventurous: On a
recent evening, I spotted several Utilikilts, a woman in a sequined Mrs.
Claus getup and a chap going shirtless underneath a fur-trimmed vest.
Much is free (including the jukebox, the pool table and the Andes mints
at the bar), the drinks are cheap (pints of Oakshire and Upright for
$4), the patio bonfire toasts your toes, and the tin sheeting keeps you
dry. If only all sideshows were so rewarding.REBECCA JACOBSON.

With its lack of signage, vast patio and occasionally
hipper-than-thou bartenders, Rontoms has long been a bastion of low-key
swank. But in the last year, its free Sunday Sessions—which feature
newer or lesser-known local bands—have made the airy yet intimate bar
even more of a destination. In the winter, acts play in the sunken
indoor pit, surrounded by comfortable, low-slung couches, and in the
summer they take to the sprawling back deck, which also boasts a
fireplace and pingpong table. The menu tends toward comfort food (think
fondue and Swedish meatballs) and the drink menu is standard, but while
sipping a glass of Oregon pinot on an oh-so-long summer night, there’s
scarcely a better place to be.
REBECCA JACOBSON.

The cavernous Rookery—above Raven & Rose in the
ancient Ladd Carriage House—looks like the thick-raftered parlor of a
man whose things are not to be fucked with. The bar’s dark-marbled rock
looks to have been cracked and hardened by first magma, then cooling
river. The liquor selection is even more impressive than the
room—oft-neglected rum sports a meticulous selection including Zaya,
Appleton Estate, Neisson, DonQ and Mount Gay Black—but rarely has such
imposing opulence been put to such pedestrian, if eminently tasteful,
purpose. Cocktails, such as a $12 Old Fashioned named after the founder
of Reed College, are designed less to surprise than to pickle drinkers
in history. Middle-aged diners talk quietly and contentedly in easy
chairs near the large gas-lit hearth, approximately 15 years après-ski.
MATTHEW KORFHAGE.

True love apparently can tame the most savage man—or bar,
as the case may be. Onetime biker-rowdy, obscene-minded Roscoe’s has
been wizened into an old pussycat by its one true and abiding passion:
beer. Plinys both Younger and Elder pass through the fast-rotating taps,
as do sours both local and Belgian. And while the house menu’s Cajun,
you can get sushi from neighboring Miyamoto delivered to your barstool.
The bar even offers sushi-beer pairing advice. One thing, however, that
remains wild there is hair, both on the patrons’ faces and in the scruff
of their loose-running dogs. More than the new bougie builds, the bar
stands as emblem to a gentler Montavilla that nonetheless still bears
the scars of its roadhouse past in both chipped red brick and the
occasional live rock show. MATTHEW KORFHAGE.

As the rest of the city blossomed into a food and brewing
mecca, Portland’s most affluent quadrant became depressingly irrelevant
during the last decade. For Southwest Portlanders, finding a decent bite
means at least a five-mile trip, often across the river. Fortunately,
Sasquatch Brewing is one of the first steps in rectifying that malaise.
Sunk off Capitol Highway on Hillsdale’s west end, Sasquatch serves up an
impressive array of in-house brews, guest taps and ciders. The food is
even better, with seasonal burgers among the best I’ve had and a “small
plate” of fried chicken and fingerling potatoes that is definitely not
small. The space, while decked in warm woods and tasteful Portland
nostalgia, is a bit cramped when it’s too cold for the patio, but that’s
nitpicking. Here’s hoping Sasquatch is around for a while and helps
lead a renaissance of these forgotten hills. JORDAN GREEN.

Though its name means “savage” in French, absolutely
nothing at Sauvage falls below perfectly refined, except maybe the
taxidermied goose perched imposingly on a stack of wine barrels near the
bar. Hardly identifiable from the street, the entry is a chalkboard
wall simply scrawled with “#102 Sauvage” and a veiled door. Once one
enters the secret wine nook, it’s as pretentious as the welcome
suggests: Hanging glass orbs and candles make the mahogany tables glow, a
mixture of random fine art and wine barrels stack the walls, and the
owners prattle off varietals with tongue-twisting dexterity. This is
oenogeek turf and don’t forget it, says the large glass door leading to
Sauvage’s on-site winery, Fausse Piste. But after a whiff of Kobe beef
carpaccio and a few glasses from the extensive wine list (try the $19
flight of orange wines for something different), that mounted goose
looks a lot more welcoming. ENID SPITZ.

Savoy Tavern is named after France, self-consciously
patterned after the Midwest and more Portland than it wants to give
itself credit for, with a décor fashioned from taxidermy and the
store-bought class of thrift-store paintings, infused liquors with the
bar’s own name on them and beer taps rarely sourced from more than 100
miles out of the town center—not to mention live music in a tiny space
and weekly DJ nights spinning indie and soul. And where Chicago
disallows any and all happy hours, Savoy has two: one in the afternoon
and one in the evening. But if the geography is confused, the mood is
warm. And if there’s one thing the Midwest is good for, it’s
forgiveness. And if there’s one thing the French are good for, it’s
being forgiven. MATTHEW KORFHAGE.

If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to sip fancy drinks
in a tiny old library, this is the closest you may ever come. Nestled
in a historic Victorian-era hall, this classy establishment has come a
long way since its frat-house origins of 1907. The lounge offers more
than 40 vintage cocktails on the menu alongside a rotating selection of
draft beers and wines. While the mounted kudu and javelina heads oversee
your visit, consider ordering the punchy Sazerac—“one of the world’s
oldest cocktails”—made with rye whiskey, absinthe, simple syrup and
bitters for $9. Food options are tasty, straightforward and available
all night. Contrary to the cozy, candlelit feel of weekdays, though,
things are sure to get loud and happenin’ during ballroom events next
door. EMILLY PRADO.

When you enter Sellwood Public House, you are greeted with
a flight of stairs, which doesn’t seem a great start. At the top of
those stairs are two locked doors that look like they house yoga studios
for septuagenarians. To the right is a short hall, and that hall is
painted on both sides like the view from the middle of the Sellwood
Bridge. This may sound lame, but I assure you it is not. And then you’re
in the Sellwood Public House, a charmingly cozy pub up off the quiet
end of 13th Avenue. The service is outstanding (especially at the bar),
the food is wide-ranging and well made, and there’s a quality tap and
liquor selection. The clientele ranges in age from mid-20s to late 30s
and is composed of regular, everyday Portlanders, the sort that don’t
see the city as a giant performance art piece (though they’re cool,
too). The bar is actually divided in half, with the non-bar side playing
host to games (pool, darts and the like) and live music, and the bar
half is for talking and watching the game. JORDAN GREEN.

The shambling mini mead hall hastily decorated for
Christmases past and shoved underneath a private residence along a
disused swath of lesser Sandy Boulevard never looked anything less than
bizarre, but the Slammer’s core clientele of square-jawed stalwarts with
uncomplicated wardrobes (Eagles jacket shelved for Slammer Softball
jersey at the first flush of spring) once typified the East Side
Industrial District. But from Skee-Ball to the giddy negation of
propriety, it’s always been more funhouse than frat house. The
bartenders don’t make good cocktails—they make stiff cocktails (less so
if you’re an ass, more so if you deserve a lesson). Even after cocktail
mecca Rum Club dropped anchor the other side of the road, a staff that
refuses credit card purchases for their own convenience didn’t exactly
rush to master mixology. The 30 feet between doors might as well be
worlds apart, separating what Portland was from all it’s trying so
desperately to become. The mood remains cordial, though Lord help the
Rum Club should they ever field a softball team. JAY HORTON.

Throughout a vibrant but never cluttered ’70s interior,
the high art of low culture has been lovingly assembled to breathtaking
effect utterly shorn of irony or, strange as this may sound, excess.
From the animatronic band figures above the jukebox to the cabinetmaking
flourishes around the fuse box, form at Sloan’s follows function. Why
don’t more cocktail tables blink around the sides? Why aren’t all lounge
ceilings mirrored? The blend of fashion-forward cocktails with
time-swept food (our visit, the food special was beef stroganoff; the
drink special, house-infused cucumber gin) reflects a clientele with
both neighborhood holdovers and gay and lesbian transplants. It’s the
sort of hard-earned integration of clientele easily spoiled by nightlife
tourists, but Sloan’s schedule and locale just far enough from several
beaten paths have thus far prevented the wholesale invasion. There’s no
better way to avoid weekenders than to avoid weekends. JAY HORTON.

Sometimes you just need a bartender who will tell you what
to do. When I edged up to the bar in this handsome but sparsely adorned
space early on a Saturday evening, uncertain of what I wanted but
sorely in need of a stiff drink, the barkeep insisted that I ditch the
cocktail menu (which, for the record, looked pretty solid) and instead
whipped me up a ballsy tequila concoction. It was tart, smoky,
face-contortingly strong, and exactly what I needed. That’s Slow Bar for
you: Originally intended to be a “bartender’s bar,” they’ve got a
rock-star attitude and the chops to back it up. They’ve also got a bar
burger so legendary that it spawned its own offshoot restaurant, but it
seems only right that one’s first-ever bite of the onion ring-crowned
Slow Burger ($9.50) should be enjoyed here at its birthplace.
EMILY JENSEN.

Happy hour: $1 off drinks, $2-$5.50 bar food 3-6 pm Monday-Friday.

Entertainment: TV, juke.

The Spare Room

4830 NE 42nd Ave., 287-5800. 7 am-2:30 am daily.

“This place is kind of amazing,” a first-time visitor to
this vast, perpetually crepuscular dive remarked, gazing into the
carpeted recesses where pink lights twinkled. “Was it…a bowling alley?”
Correct on both counts. And she hadn’t even seen the square-dancing
nights or the KJ who accompanies most songs with saxophone (even if they
do not traditionally have saxophone parts) or the ladies’ night. Come
to think of it, I haven’t seen the ladies’ night, but I trust that it is
amazing, because it is advertised on the biggest, reddest sign in town.
And also because everything here is miraculous. My drinking companion
and I downed $2 happy-hour wells and watched Florida Gulf Coast
University beat the University of Florida until exactly the moment we
left. AARON MESH.

Visiting the Star Bar isn’t as much a social event as an
anthropological one. Alice Cooper and Gene Simmons ogle you from framed
prints as you order at the bar, and if you’re not dressed in black
leather and chains, there’s a good chance you’ll feel a little out of
place. But after a few minutes, you realize that the bar has comfortable
couches, dozens of hilarious black velvet paintings, a decent food and
cocktail menu, and moneyed refugees from Dig a Pony monopolizing the
photo booth. Star Bar remains true to the spirit of the authentically
gritty dive in only one important way: Every time the bathroom door
opens, it pervades the bar with an acidic urine stench strong enough to
make a construction worker gag. Sit as far away from the back as you
can. ADRIENNE SO.

Housed in the 80-year-old brown stucco building previously
occupied by Thai restaurant Siam Society, the sports pub Station takes
its name from the original tenant, the Northwestern Electric Co., which
operated a power station in that spot in the 1930s. So it’s basically a
McMenamins-style repurposing job, helmed by Circa 33’s Josh Johnston and
Jim Hall. A large, arched doorway leads into a room outfitted with
cathedral windows, a massive projection screen and a mirrored bar whose
top shelf must be accessed by ladder. It’s like they shoved an upscale
man cave inside an old community playhouse. As incongruous as the mix of
faded industrialism and nouveau-westside chic comes across, though, it
makes for an appealingly strange atmosphere to watch a Ducks game. And
there’s little quibbling with the cocktail menu, in particular the Knee
Jerk ($7), a thick, sweet rum drink blending honey syrup, lemon juice
and egg whites and dusted with just enough cayenne to leave a pleasant
burn. MATTHEW SINGER.

As one beloved dive after another falls to condo
developments and reclamation projects rendering unrecognizable all
former charms—keep Portland weird, the current ethos reads, but never
unclean—it’s some small miracle that Suki’s Bar & Grill has remained
resolutely unreconstructed. Something beyond ambiance draws the motley
assemblage of daytime patrons (adventurous PSU students, yellow-eyed
office cubicle refugees, guests of an adjoining motel primarily chosen
for proximity to VA and OHSU hospitals) to pass through the throng of
Oregon Lottery regulars and approach the surprisingly spacious lounge
for serviceable food, passingly stiff drinks and a thriving karaoke
scene. While devoted fans may credit the mayhem cultivated by KJ Dick,
there’s a freedom afforded by bars that allow the full plunge. JAY
HORTON.

The Sweet Hereafter is, in its own way, an afterlife for
the old-school bar. It has no phone and no website, but this is less
low-tech apathy than a post-everything abnegation of the world. The food
is likewise post-meat and post-dairy (post-gluten should be next), and
the garage-doored patio—at least the part that isn’t a strange gravel
pit best suited for a backyard tofurky grill—is emphatically
post-smoking. But it’s not a eulogy we’re writing, because the bar is
indeed lively. Because of its pedigree as an offshoot of Bye And Bye, it
has garnered an inexplicable reputation as a hipster bar that is
nonetheless not borne out by the clientele. The place is downright homey
and crowded with personable people who have actual jobs until,
suddenly, it isn’t: At about 11 pm any night but Saturday, the happily
crowded bar collectively checks its watch and drinks up. It’s kind of
amazing. Also, “vegan bar” or no, no one I know intentionally eats food
here. (Portland, it seems, is post-vegan.) MATTHEW KORFHAGE

Yeah, they put a bird on it. Yawn. But that doesn’t stop
the Swift Lounge from being a downright pleasant place for a
liquor-fueled lark. It’s famous for Mason-jar concoctions in
super-happy-fun (for now) “Fatty” 32-ounce jars ($8) or “I’m not going
to barf later” 16-ounce “Sissy” jars ($6). Some of the drinks skew too
sweet, but the Stoned Finch, a combo of cucumber-infused vodka, basil,
mint, cucumber and elderflower syrup hits the right note without being
saccharine. Throw in a happy-hour special of fondue fries ($4) and a
bowl of kimchi and brown rice ($2) and pray for a table outside on the
sidewalk. ANDREA DAMEWOOD.

The bar’s tiny room consists of a one-plank bar, a pair of
communal tables and a chocolate Lab half asleep near the record players
as if music were a warm fire. But the seeming simplicity is deceptive;
the Tannery’s terrific meat plate is sourced from Portland all the way
to Iowa, while a 4-inch-thick ham-Gruyere Monte Cristo ($12) looks like a
porn version of French toast. The house drinks are just as decadent,
with a $9 Suisse-sour deepening Cherry Heering and citrus juices with
bitters and herbal Fernet Vallet. The bar also stocks dry, oaky ciders
and keeps a sour beer perennially on tap. Still, the Gasthaus
architecture and spare wood framing gives the bar a self-contained,
Teutonic distance. You don’t feel at home there so much as you feel like
you’ve been treated to unexpected hospitality in an obscure land,
somewhere high in the mountains of Tabor. MATTHEW KORFHAGE.

Tanuki is a strange little world. Known for its food but
appointed as a bar, chef-owner Janis Martin’s Montavilla izakaya is a
dim, nearly unmarked space frequented mostly by a small, self-selecting
group of adventurous eaters and service-industry pros. This will be
doubly so now that Tanuki is starkly limiting food seating to maintain
its licensing status as a sake joint. Still, it has maybe the most
distinctive (and maybe the most vegetarian-unfriendly) bar food in the
city, with Japanese-Korean-inflected small plates and ingredient
combinations that often defy easy categorization, alongside similarly
singular drinks—in particular the Dejima ($7), a mixture of gin, St.
Germain elderflower liqueur, rhubarb bitters and cucumber served ice
cold in a cedar masu (square, wooden drinking cup). MATTHEW KORFHAGE.

At the crest of the Alameda Ridge sits Portland’s
indie-rock garden party, its semi-famous denizens undiminished by age,
mortgages or the various infused gins they’ve ingested. There are, I
suppose, cracks in the beautiful-loser façade of Tiga, mostly the
product of its tiny footprint. The DJ turntable is located one elbow’s
length away from the bar, and sensitive nonsmokers will never be able to
escape the sensation that Joe Camel is parked outside the open garage
door. But no whining in Eden, please. As with so much of the new
Portland, no one is ever going to notice that this is merely an
extra-wide sidewalk, some ashtrays and some artfully scattered rocks: It
is heaven because we are here. AARON MESH.

Though very much the next step in the Mississippi
neighborhood’s relentless gentrification, Uchu maintains some of that
neighborhood’s art-damaged edge, as opposed to the wholesale bourgeoisie
of the flower-in-tundra Williams-Vancouver restaurant colony: Uchu’s
décor balances a sleek, airy wood design with two massive aquariums
stocked with vibrantly colored tropical fish. And the happy-hour menu is
killer. It features sushi rolls and subtly spiced fried chicken wings
for $4, along with a selection of $5 cocktails, including the signature
Uchu, a cloudy mixture of rum, lime and agave. MATTHEW SINGER.

I dunno, man, it’s hard to explain. If you ride, you get
it. But if you’ve never shown up to work late and dripping, your teeth
tingly from some potholed street, you won’t understand. For us 5.8
percenters—Portland’s bike commuters—a place like Velo Cult makes sense.
It’s a cavernous bicycle shop with beer on tap, a stage and a makeshift
museum. Sitting at the bar fashioned from scrappy wood, admiring the
collection of old mountain bikes and drinking a can of Anderson
Valley—shit, it’s cool. If you ride, you get why the owners moved this
shop up from San Diego. The plan to serve pour-over coffee and tamales
makes sense, too. And you’re stoked they held a screening of Smokey and the Bandit director Hal Needham’s 1986 cult classic, Rad, about a kid who skips the SAT for a BMX race. If not, this ain’t your scene. MARTIN CIZMAR.

Montavilla’s Vintage cocktail lounge is a great place to
do the whole absinthe thing. On one hand, this upscale cocktail bar—a
deep, narrow nook along Stark Street’s canopied sidewalks—has all the
appropriate accoutrements, from the fountain to spoon. On the other
hand, this dark neighborhood bar is not so fashionable that anyone will
look at you cross-eyed for indulging in the pleasant little ritual a few
years past the height of the trend. Cocktails stand up to anything on
the city side of the volcano, uniformly well made by friendly bartenders
and mostly priced between $8 and $12. MARTIN CIZMAR.

On a recent episode of Portlandia, the Waypost
acted as visual shorthand for the kind of establishment that harbors the
artistically challenged. That’s unfair, but not wholly inaccurate. At
night, the small Boise-Eliot cafe-cum-tavern hosts all manner of events,
from poetry readings to fiddle jams to “dinosaur tarot” readings.
Draped in thrift-store chic, the place resembles a coffee shop more than
a bar and actually acts as such during the day—which, ironically, is
the best time to stop in for a cocktail, when there’s no interpretive
dance showcase scheduled and you can peacefully enjoy a cucumber-infused
vodka cranberry on the patio, naturally situated next to a community
garden.MATTHEW SINGER.

Waiting is an intrinsic part of Portland life, whether for
brunch or ice cream. Either way, it was only a matter of time before
local restaurateurs opened spin-off establishments where they can send
waiting customers. Pok Pok has Whiskey Soda Lounge, and now Ox has Whey
Bar. Originally meant to be a private dining room, the converted storage
shed resembles a rustic hospital lobby, with firewood and Edison lamps
lining the walls, and serves as a staging area for patrons who have 90
minutes to kill before going H.A.M. on a rib eye. It’s a bit hidden away
to stand on its own as a bar, but that doesn’t mean the drinks are an
afterthought. There are $9 shots of barrel-aged Fernet, whey cocktails
and cocktails named the Dirty Agnes (vodka, dry vermouth, pickle juice)
and Devil in a New Dress (tequila, red pepper, orange liqueur, lime,
mezcal). Meanwhile, new bar manager Justin Diaz plans to upgrade thebar menu. MATTHEW SINGER.

White Owl Social Club

1305 SE 8th Ave., 236-9672. 3 pm-2:30 am daily.

According to Club propaganda, a $25 fee and pledging your
soul to “Ye Olde Serpent of the Bottomless Pit” gets you a membership
card and a few drink tokens. No membership is required to stop in for a
drink, but a taste for Metallica and local liquor helps. Essentially a
large-scale spin-off of the studded and shredded Sizzle Pie late-night
pizzeria, the White Owl occupies a large space in industrial inner
Southeast. There aren’t any neighbors to disturb, which is good because
the music is loud and the crowd favors nicotine and leather. A
restaurantlike indoor section, where we got $5 pints and a disappointing
salmon burger, has nothing novel to offer. But a massive patio packed
with picnic tables, projectors and an old pickup truck hauling a few
kegs shows promise come summer. MARTIN CIZMAR.

The World Famous Kenton Club bills itself as music, booze
and regrets. Our thumping eardrums and hangovers couldn’t agree more.
NoPo’s most iconic dive bar—serving up generous pours of liquor and
holding live shows most nights of the week—has been around since 1947.
Dubbed “world famous” after the bar had a cameo in a 1972 Raquel Welch
roller-derby flick, today it’s definitely the go-to spot for the
neighborhood. (Parking our car, we saw a twentysomething leave her
apartment across the street and plant herself on a bar stool for the
rest of the night.) It’s been 66 years, and Kenton Club’s put down roots
as a raucous, dark, dirty-in-the-best-way-possible dive—and that shit’s
timeless. ANDREA DAMEWOOD.